The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

She gasped.

This was not what she’d seen on the statue at the museum.

A lot of what her mother had said began to make sense.

She looked up him with a question in her eyes, and he gave a jerky nod. Holding her breath, she reached out and touched him, gingerly at first, pulling back when his member twitched beneath her fingers.

He rolled over to his side, and Iris fell with him, only just realizing that he still had his boots on.

She didn’t care. And he didn’t seem to, either.

She pushed him until he was on his back, then crouched next to him, just looking. How had it grown so big?

Yet another thing in her world she did not understand.

She touched it again, this time letting her fingers drift along the surprisingly silky skin. Richard sucked in his breath, and his body jerked, but she knew it was with pleasure, not pain.

Or if it was pain, it was a good kind of pain.

“More,” he groaned, and this time she wrapped her hand lightly around him, glancing back up to his face to make sure she was doing the right thing. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing fast and hard. She moved her hand, just a little bit, but before she could do more, his fingers wrapped over hers, holding her still.

For a moment she thought she’d hurt him, but then his grip tightened, and she realized he was showing her what to do. After a few strokes his hand fell away, and she was left in control, thrilled by the seductive power she held over him.

“My God, Iris,” Richard groaned. “What you do to me . . .”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she felt a proud smile rising within her. She wanted to take him over the edge, as he had done for her. After so many lonely nights, she wanted proof that he desired her, that she was woman enough to satisfy him. He would not be able to hide behind a chaste kiss on her forehead again.

“Can I kiss you?” she whispered.

His eyes flew open.

“Like you did to me?”

“No,” he said quickly, the word hoarse and wrenched from his throat. “No,” he said again, and he almost looked a little panicked.

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because . . .” He swore and scooted himself up, not quite to a sitting position, but enough so that he could rest on his elbows. “Because I won’t—I can’t—”

“Will it hurt you?”

He groaned, closing his eyes. He looked so distressed. Iris touched him again, watching his face as his body jerked beneath her. The sound of his breath electrified her, and he looked like . . . he looked like . . .

He looked the way she felt. Overcome.

His head fell back, and she knew the moment he gave in. The tension did not leave his body, but something told her he was through fighting himself. She peeked back up at his face to make sure his eyes were still closed—somehow she wasn’t brave enough to do this if she knew he was watching—and she bent over and placed the lightest of kisses on the tip of his manhood.

He gasped, his belly sucking in with his breath, but he did not stop her. Emboldened, Iris kissed him again, allowing her lips to linger a bit longer. He twitched, and she drew back, glancing at his face. He didn’t open his eyes, but he must have sensed her hesitation, because he gave a brief nod, and then with one single word, he made her soul sing.

“Please.”

It was so strange to think that just a few weeks ago she was Miss Iris Smythe-Smith, hiding behind her cello at her family’s awful musicale. Her world had changed so much; it was as if the earth had flipped on its axis, landing her here, as Lady Kenworthy, in bed with this glorious man, kissing him on a part of his body she hadn’t even known existed before. Or at least not in its present state.

“How does it do that?” she murmured to herself.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, blushing. “It was nothing.”

His hand found her chin, turning her to face him. “Tell me.”

“I was just, well, wondering . . .” She swallowed, utterly mortified, which was ludicrous. She was about to kiss him there again, and she was embarrassed to be wondering how it all worked?

“Iris . . .” His voice was like warmed honey, melting through her bones.

Not quite looking at him, she motioned to his member. “It’s not like this all the time.” And then, second-guessing herself, she added, “Right?”

He let out a hoarse laugh. “God, no. It would kill me.”

She blinked in confusion.

“It’s desire, Iris,” he said in a husky voice. “Desire makes a man like this. Hard.”

She touched him gently. He was indeed hard. Under the softest of skin, he was hard as granite.

“Desire for you,” he said, then admitted, “I’ve been like this all week.”

Her eyes widened with shock. She did not speak, but she rather thought he saw the question in her eyes.

“Yes,” he said with a self-mocking chuckle. “It hurts.”

“But then—”

“Not pain like an injury,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Pain like frustration, like unfulfilled need.”

But you could have had me. The words hovered unspoken in her mind. Clearly he hadn’t thought she was ready. Maybe he’d thought he was being considerate. But she did not wish to be treated like a fragile ornament. People seemed to think she was delicate and frail—it was her coloring, she thought, and her slight frame. But she wasn’t. She never had been. On the inside she was fierce.

And she was ready to prove it.

Chapter Seventeen

RICHARD DIDN’T KNOW if he was in heaven or hell.